I stood there in shock. From that moment on, I said nothing—but the pain stayed buried in my heart. It was never really about the food. What hurt was knowing that my husband didn’t understand my struggle and always chose his mother over me.
My mother-in-law took all the food from our refrigerator every single week. When I complained to my husband about it, he yelled at me in anger, called me selfish, and took his mother’s side. The very next day, I prepared a “surprise gift.” When she opened it, she collapsed in shock—and my husband fell to his knees in front of her, begging for forgiveness.
Jason and I had been married for almost two years. We lived in a small apartment in Quezon City so we could be close to our offices. Life wasn’t luxurious—we both worked to pay rent, cover daily expenses, and save a little if we could.
My mother-in-law lived in Laguna, about 70 kilometers away. At first, she treated me with great affection. But after we moved into our own place, her weekly visits “to check on her son” slowly became my nightmare.
Every Saturday evening, I bought groceries for the entire week—meat, fish, vegetables, milk, and fruit. I carefully arranged everything in the refrigerator, planning every meal and every peso. But by Sunday morning, if my mother-in-law came over… the fridge would be almost empty.
The moment she arrived, she would open the fridge and quickly grab the meat and vegetables, laughing as she said:
“You have everything here! Let me take some home. There’s not much food in the province. You two have plenty—what’s a few items going to cost you?”
I never argued. I only forced a smile. But this happened every week, and for several days after, I survived on instant noodles.
One day, I finally spoke to Jason in a gentle voice:
“Jason… your mom takes almost all the food every time she comes. It’s really hard for me. I count every peso when I shop…”
He slammed his hand on the table and shouted:
“You’re selfish! My mother is old—what’s wrong with her taking a few things now and then? As my wife, you shouldn’t even think like that!”
The following week, I decided to teach both of them a small lesson. Early Sunday morning, I went to the market and bought groceries—but inside one large container, I hid a “special surprise”: a piece of paper with our weekly expenses, grocery receipts, and a handwritten note:
“Mom, I don’t want to stop you from taking food. But when everything is gone, I have to skip breakfast so I can save enough money to buy groceries again. We are struggling. I never wanted to make you feel bad—I just wanted you to understand…”
I placed the container in the refrigerator and labeled it: “Mutton Curry”—her favorite.
That afternoon, my mother-in-law arrived. She opened the fridge, picked up the container, and smiled.
“Oh, my daughter-in-law made mutton curry for me? How sweet!”
The moment she opened the lid… her face turned pale. The paper slipped from her hands. She stood frozen for a moment, then slowly sat down, trembling, her eyes filling with tears.
“You wrote this?” she asked, her voice shaking.
Nodding through my tears, I said,
“Mom, please forgive me. I didn’t want to hide this anymore. I just wanted you to understand that we are struggling.”
The room fell silent. After a long pause, she spoke softly:
“I didn’t know… I thought you both had plenty. Seeing the hardship in the province, I thought it was okay to take some. I was wrong.”
Just then, Jason walked into the room. He picked up the paper and read it. When he reached the part about me skipping breakfast, his face changed completely. He looked at me and his mother with tears in his eyes.
“Please forgive me… I didn’t know,” he said, then fell to his knees in front of me.
I pulled him up, and we both burst into tears. My mother-in-law held my hand and said:
“Daughter, please forgive me. I hurt you. From now on, I won’t take anything from your home again.”
That day, the three of us ate together—without any distance between us for the first time. She shared stories about life in the province, we laughed, and Jason even fed his mother with his own hands.
When she was about to leave in the evening, she held my hand and said:
“Thank you, my daughter. Sometimes even elders need to be taught gently with love.”
From that day on, she still visits every week—but now she doesn’t take anything. Instead, she brings vegetables, eggs, and fish for our home.
Jason has changed too. He now looks after every meal, helps with the housework, and sometimes laughs and says:
“Now the fridge is only for us. Mom comes here to bring food—not to take it.”
I smiled, and my heart finally felt light.
After so many storms, I had finally found true peace in my small kitchen.